


A Rush of Blood to the Head

by Lokifan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Desperation, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Power Struggle, Quidditch, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokifan/pseuds/Lokifan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re grown-ups now with responsible Ministry jobs; but playing Quidditch against each other, Ron and Draco revert to hormonal teenage rage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Rush of Blood to the Head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [r_grayjoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_grayjoy/gifts).



> This was my Kinky Kristmas 2012 fic over at Daily Deviant, for r_grayjoy. Teenageworrier beta'd for me like a champ and the mods were utter saints.
> 
> This uses the filmverse uniforms, broadly speaking: gloves and pads, not just robes.

Draco forced back a wince as he and Weasley shook hands; Weasley’s large hand felt like it might break bones. They stared each other in the eyes, trying to break the other’s nerve. It was a time-honoured tradition among Quidditch captains, and also thoroughly ridiculous. Draco was aware of how ridiculous it was, because Pansy told him so at length after every Ministry game. But he wasn’t going to stop. Then Weasley might think he’d _won_.

The handshake had stopped, but Draco didn’t look away from Weasley’s blue eyes. They weren’t bright blue, but the colour of those Muggle jeans that Draco hid every time his mother visited, and narrowed with dislike. Draco hated having to tip up his chin to look into Weasley’s eyes. He wasn’t _short_ , and anyway being compact was a good quality in a Seeker (unlike with Keepers, for whom looking like an anorexic gorilla was actively encouraged). Still, Weasley was big enough to _loom_ at him. At least with Potter, Draco looked down on him in ways other than the metaphorical.

“Ahem.” Hayley from the Department of Magical Games and Sports elbowed Draco. “You can let go now.”

Draco and Weasley dropped each other’s hands like they were burning. Weasley visibly stopped himself from wiping his hand on his Quidditch leathers.

“Now the handshake and homoerotic rage segment is over,” Greg said, foul betrayer that he was. “Mount your brooms.”

“I hear Malfoy says that every night,” Weasley muttered.

“I hear Weasley does that every night,” Draco shot back, and restrained himself from making a face at him.

“Gentlemen,” Greg warned in his Referee tone. “Let the game begin!”

Draco kicked off, going lightheaded as his feet left the ground. The air rushed past his face, blowing his hair back, and then he was fifty feet in the air. Fifty feet away from the world, and all he had to think about now was the broom beneath him and the glint of gold he was searching for.

But Weasley kept distracting him, the bastard. Draco was a good Seeker because he was fast and not afraid to risk falling off his broom, and because of his ability to focus. Pansy called it his “capacity for weird obsession” but she was a heathen who did not understand about Quidditch. Draco privately thought this was a much more important reason for their relationship not working out than his exclusive interest in men.

But the other reason he was a good Seeker was that Draco liked shiny things. He was an only child and a reformed thief and the son of (whisper it) new money on one side; he had an excellent eye for the the bright, the shiny, the eye-catching.

And bloody Weasley with his scarlet head kept drawing Draco’s eye. Fuck it, maybe they should wear the regulation helmets. He scanned the skies, searching for the little ball, that hint of colour, of gilt - and Weasley’s hair would catch his attention against his will. Honestly. How was a professional person allowed to go about looking like his head was on fire? Your hair should not be the most memorable thing about you.

“Oi, blondie!” yelled Weasley.

Draco whipped round so his face and broom faced Weasley’s like a javelin. “What?”

“New broom, yeah? You compensating for something?”

“Old broom, yes? And I thought you’d managed to get a real job...”

“Unlike some people, I actually work for a living. I guess Malfoys are better at polishing chairs with their arses.” Weasley wasn’t paying any attention to the right goalpost, Draco noticed gleefully.

“And Weasleys are better at polishing their boss’ cocks if what I hear - ”

“GOAL!” The howl came from six throats; Draco was too busy watching Weasley’s face as he realised. Weasley’s face flushed scarlet as his head whipped round, watching the Quaffle fly through his goalpost. Then Weasley turned to look at Draco again. Draco grinned at him and watched Weasley’s face darken further. He looked like he was out for blood, and the exhilaration of grinning in the face of that fury made Draco’s body feel light.

He flew off, ignoring the other team’s Seeker in favour of following the demands of his own body. It had been so long since he’d flown; Draco rose higher, feeling the rush. It had been too long. His gaze searched through empty air. Draco kept moving, feeling his hair blow back in the wind. This far up, flying fast, it was hard for other players’ voices to reach him through the wind.

Weasley’s deep voice managed it though. Maybe just because he was so annoying.

“Too busy twirling to look for the Snitch, Malfoy? But then I guess your looks are all you’ve got going for you these days.”

“Jealous?” Draco jeered. “Since gentlemen prefer blondes - ”

“Gentlemen? Not what I’ve heard. Looking for a bit of rough trade are we, posh boy?”

“Why, does one of your brothers need a job?”

Too late, Draco realised his desire to make poor jokes about Weasley had led him into a strange place. He pulled it back with some more poverty and too-many-children jokes. Weasley was glaring at him again, his shoulder muscles flexing as he gripped his ancient broom handle. Draco wondered if those large hands might snap it.

Either way Weasley’s attention was firmly off the goal. A moment later he paid for it: another ten points to Draco’s team.

Draco did a little loop-the-loop of glee, just to rub it in. “Oh dear, Weasley! Looks like we’re gonna give to you hard this match!”

“You look kind of small and limp to me,” Weasley called back.

Draco turned away, searching the sky for the little gold ball that would bring this to an appropriately glorious conclusion. Even though he had an incredibly clever and witty retort to that.

Pansy said he wasn’t nearly as witty as he thought he was, which just showed no appreciation for the amount of time Draco spent trying to come up with Quidditch one-liners. And it was hard; once he was on the pitch, his body and his broom moving in concert, muscles straining, feeling that smooth rush, clever words just seemed to fall out of his head.

He needed to pay attention to the game. Weasley was shouting another insult, but the other Seeker’s alert expression was more important. Draco reminded himself he was a grown-up now. He was a Ministry worker with a respectable job, not a teenager ruled by his hormones. Even if Weasley kept shouting, kept nudging up Draco’s blood pressure, kept insisting on Draco’s attention. Draco could resist the urge to do it back.

A glint of gold: Draco was sure. He strained his eyes, trying to see, to be sure -

“So, that broom - ” Weasley called. Draco’s eyes flickered reflexively to Weasley’s face, and when he looked back for the Snitch, it was gone.

Draco felt a rush of blood to the head. “I’m not compensating for _anything_!” he howled across the sky. “It’s a metaphor for my enormous cock!”

The pitch didn’t actually go silent. But it felt like it did.

Bloody Gryffindors. Even now, almost thirty and with ever-more adult responsibilities, Draco couldn’t keep his cool around them.

At least he wasn’t the only one.

“Ha!” Weasley shouted. “You’re not man enough to take this team!”

“Unlike you, Weasley, but I’m sure that’s just locker-room talk!” Draco shouted as he turned away, trying to regain his focus.

“Depends how I want to celebrate when we win, doesn’t it?” Draco’s team groaned - Weasley must have batted away an attempt on the goal. Draco kept his eyes away, looking for the Snitch; it hadn’t stilled for a while, surely -

“You could come along, Malfoy. I always like to celebrate by bending over a pretty blond and showing him who’s boss.”

Caught off guard, Draco swerved round to stare. Weasley grinned at him, leaving no doubt that he really _had_ said that. The sight of Weasley’s smile brought images flashing through Draco’s mind, like sense memories of things he’d never felt: Weasley’s hands on his chest, Weasley’s warm body against his, that smile in close-up. Draco flushed and Weasley’s grin widened.

Draco scowled. “You’re such a – you’re so - ” He flew closer.

“I’m so what, Malfoy?” Weasley was on the edge of the goal now, glaring back. “Come on, say it!”

Draco didn’t know what Weasley expected him to say – or even what he himself wanted to say. But it didn’t seem to matter. He and Weasley were just yards away from each other – then feet. Draco could see the blue of Weasley’s eyes, could have counted the freckles scattered across his long nose. Could feel the heat of his glare as Draco glowered back. The sounds of the match dropped away, and it felt like they might finally conclude this thing between them. Even if it involved a fistfight.

Of course Draco would catch the Snitch first, but it might feel even better to finally get his hands on Weasley, once they knew for sure who was better, knew who’d won -

“Game over!” Greg’s voice cut through their stare. The bubble around them punctured, Draco and Weasley looked round. Weasley’s team was cheering; his sodding Seeker had caught the Snitch while Draco was distracted. Draco’s team was scowling at him.

Humiliation burnt through Draco. He’d lost, and to a Seeker so inferior Draco couldn’t even remember his name; and all because -

“I’m that distracting, am I?” Weasley smirked.

Draco dove for the ground.

He and Weasley hit the ground together. The rest of Weasley’s team surrounded their Captain, laughing and talking, the Seeker still holding the Snitch clenched between his fingers. The golden wings fluttered, the ball still wishing for the sky.

The rest of his team came over. The other two Chasers were scowling, but Hayley patted Draco’s arm and said something about next time. Draco nodded, barely paying attention.

Frustration prickled at his muscles. It wasn’t that he’d lost. It felt like Draco hadn’t lost at all - or won. Weasley was frowning too amidst his team. The game might be over, but they still didn’t know who’d _won_.

They’d been so close, and then -

Weasley caught Draco’s glare and pushed his way out of the cluster of his teammates. They tried touching his bunched shoulders, calling him back, but Weasley ignored them. Draco strode to meet him.

“It’s not worth it,” called one of Weasley’s Beaters, pulling at Weasley’s arm, and Draco snarled. He’d heard those words over and over again during his Hogwarts years, and even now they made him see red.

Draco’s own teammates surrounded him. His whole body was almost aching from the sense of interruption; of climax deferred. He spent his whole working life being calm and polite, leashing his competitiveness and his drive. Draco loved Quidditch more now than he had even as a teenager for that chance to purge his rage and enjoy trying to _win_. And now -

“It’s totally worth it,” Weasley said, and shook off his friends. Draco did the same, unwilling to let Weasley be the only one to play macho. Their teammates called them back, made gestures towards pulling them away. Weasley shrugged them off and Draco snarled. The other twelve players melted away, leaving Draco and Weasley alone with each other and glaring.

Anything could happen now.

“Lost again, Malfoy. Somehow you just can’t get it done, can you?”

“You should talk. I thought you were going to pound us into the ground but instead...”

“I think we brought it to a satisfying conclusion.” The tension in Weasley’s body put the lie to his claim, but he still gave Draco an obnoxiously wide grin, knowing Draco was annoyed.

Weasley’s team had won. Worse, he and Weasley had come so close to consummating the brewing hostility between them, and it had all come to nothing.

Draco turned and stamped towards the broom shed. Weasley kept pace, besieging Draco with his presence. The scarlet hair in the corner of Draco’s eye, his deep voice and needling comments, even the smell of him. They reached the shed and Weasley burst through the door first thanks to his longer stride. Draco gritted his teeth, pissed off, and annoyed with himself for being bothered by such a petty move.

Weasley’s face was still red though the game had been over for ten minutes - the other players had already left their brooms and gone. Draco knew his own cheeks were marked with pink. For all his attempts at Malfoy calm, when he saw Weasley he was catapulted back into hormonal teenage rage.

The smell of leather and musky sweat filled the small space. Draco and Weasley slid their brooms into place on the wall-brackets and removed their gloves and knee-pads. Draco tried to ignore Weasley, but the scent of him and his wide shoulders seemed to take up the whole small space, crowding Draco against the wall.

“Back off, Weasley,” Draco snapped. The fizzing feeling inside him mattered less than the annoyance. “I know you and all your littermates lived in a house this size so maybe you’ve got a warped idea of personal space - ”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Weasley said. He turned to face Draco, and suddenly Draco was between the wall and Weasley’s bulk. Draco couldn’t quite look Weasley in the face - he was too aware of the slim inches of air between them, of Weasley’s muscular chest, the bright blue eyes. Weasley was too close - his palm was on the wall next to Draco’s head.

Wanker. This was _exactly_ why people said Quidditch was all about sex, when it was a pure Beautiful Game, because Quidditch players threatened each other like -

Weasley was talking about celebrating, about Draco’s talking ruining everything. But Draco wasn’t paying attention. Weasley’s red hair was darkened at the temples from sweat.

“And if you can’t keep your pretty mouth shut, Malfoy, you can at least have the decency to do some good with it.”

Draco blinked at him. Weasley gave him a filthy grin in reply. The tension rose around them and Draco didn’t know how to respond. Whether to acknowledge this feeling, if someone would make the first move or this would be just another punch-up. Whether to smack Weasley in the mouth or - or - the tension was a wave piling up and up and up -

Draco grabbed Weasley and kissed him and the wave broke, came crashing down.

Weasley murmured, sounding gleeful, into the kiss. “Now this is the way to celebrate.” Draco scoffed and kissed him again, running his hands over Weasley’s shoulders and back. He actually had his hands on Weasley’s body. Maybe he shouldn’t want the obnoxious bastard, but suddenly the frustration of competition deferred was melting away. And fuck, Weasley was an excellent kisser.

Weasley kissed him like he wanted to win. Now that it was happening, Weasley gave no quarter, left no part of Draco untouched. His hot mouth sent shivers through Draco; his hands grabbed and groped at Draco’s arms, sides, arse, leaving bruises and excitement in their wake; his body came forward, crushing Draco against the wall. Draco held on and kissed back and tried to keep up. Desperation thrummed through him, and it was matched by Weasley’s movements. Weeks of foreplay and Draco had to have it _now_. Weasley was making little sounds, tugging at Draco’s lower lip with his teeth, and it was all a bit overwhelming. But Draco was going to win.

Draco kissed down Weasley’s jaw, neck, to the base of his throat. He set to work, reddening Weasley’s fair skin with his mouth. Weasley groaned and Draco grinned against his throat. He tugged at the neck of Weasley’s Quidditch robes, wanting more skin, more sounds.

Weasley’s knee nudged forward, sliding between Draco’s thighs. Draco sighed a little and Weasley caught the sound between his lips. Weasley’s knee nudged up further, and oh now there was pressure against his cock -

“So fucking easy,” Weasley muttered, and Draco’s thighs were being forced wider. Draco drew back, eyes suddenly wide, and Weasley gave him a red-cheeked smile that was triumphant enough to confirm his suspicions. Draco scowled and then Weasley rocked his thigh at just the right angle against Draco’s cock.

Fuck. Weasley knew what he was doing, the madly competitive bastard.

“You should talk,” Draco said, trying to ignore the lust-hoarsened sound of his own voice. “You’re getting off with me in a shed.”

“And I’m gonna make you scream.”

Draco kissed him again, trying to concentrate on that. Nipping Weasley’s swollen lower lip - Weasley liked that - but Draco did too, fuck it. And Weasley was still nudging his thigh against Draco’s cock, finding the perfect angles, sending blinding flashes of pleasure through him. This had been building all afternoon, and somehow Weasley kept finding the perfect ways to undo him.

“Yeah, come on.” Another wave of pleasure - Draco’s eyes clenched shut and he sucked in a breath. Weasley gave a deep chuckle into his ear and Draco _hated_ it, hated that he couldn’t hide his reactions. Bad enough to be sexually overwhelmed by your enemy, worse that he knew what he was doing. “Nice and easy, Malfoy, just let me - ” Draco was too weak to stop this - it had been so long, and Weasley’s strong body holding him against the wall, it was so -

Another long shudder. Draco’s fingers clenched around Weasley’s biceps; he was probably bruising him through the leather elbow-guard. Weasley’s chuckle tightened Draco’s stomach with lust. And now Weasley’s tongue and teeth, playing with his earlobe - “fuck,” Draco choked out. “You’re - ”

“Mmm?” Weasley murmured. Draco couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes again, but he felt Weasley’s hot gaze. He was exposing Draco relentlessly, winding him tighter, and -

“You’re going to come first,” Draco decided.

“Oh really?” Weasley half-chuckled the words, then inhaled sharply as Draco reached inside his Quidditch breeches. Draco curled his fingers round Weasley’s cock. The hot, soft skin made Draco’s chest seize with desire for a moment.

But this was his grab for power, and you didn’t stop halfway through. What _would_ Draco’s father say if he knew the uses to which his lessons were being put... Draco began wanking Weasley, putting everything he could into it. Every uneven breath, every clench of Weasley’s fingers next to his head, every jerk of the hips was another victory. Draco watched avidly, and rode Weasley’s thigh all the while, nudging his cock against the hard swell of muscle. He couldn’t stop himself. But it couldn’t compare with bare, nimble fingers. He was going to fucking win, to see Weasley lose it just for him -

Weasley’s heavy cock grew still harder and Weasley’s blue eyes glazed over. Draco tried to distance himself from how hot that was, to think only of winning. “Fuck it,” he muttered. “We’ve been having masculinity fights for too long, I’m not going to come in five minutes and let you win.”

“You think so?” Weasley’s eyes went sharp again: the eyes of a chess player. Suddenly two large hands were unlacing Draco’s breeches and reaching for his cock. “You’ve been cheating. Rubbing me off with your clever fingers, using all your little tricks when I was just letting you ride my thigh like the slag you are.” Draco made a stomach-punched sound, not sure if he was more aroused or outraged.

Weasley’s warm fingers began working his cock, quick movements to get him off fast, and Draco’s brain melted before he could decide.

Draco flung his head back against the wall, swallowing, trying to focus through the pleasure. He tried every trick he knew, trying to please Weasley. “Y-you think you can win?” Draco said. “I’m a Malfoy. Bred for depravity.”

“You look it too,” Weasley said, appreciation evident in his deep voice. “Stretched out all pretty for me, clenching every muscle, trying to keep control.”

“You think you can take my self-control?” Draco snarled. He’d spent ten fucking years building it up -

“It will be my pleasure.”

Weasley was suddenly crushing Draco against the wall, his hot mouth on Draco’s exposed throat. All that strategic skill Draco liked to pretend didn’t exist, all the insecure need to be first that Draco had spent fifteen years feeding - it was suddenly focussed on breaking Draco with pleasure.

He wanted to see Weasley fall apart, but fuck, he wanted to come. Weasley was wanking him and sucking lovebites into bloom on his skin and then another hand made its way under thin cloth and found Draco’s nipple. Draco jerked - it wasn’t fair - “ _bastard,_ ” he hissed, to be met with another laugh.

“Give it up, Malfoy,” Weasley coaxed. “C’mon. What’s dignity when you could come? Come on, you’re fucking my hand, you’re desperate, don’t pretend you don’t need it.”

“You need it,” Draco said through gritted teeth. The pleasure sang through him, breaking down his defences. To his embarrassment, Weasley’s filthy words were making it harder to resist.

Weasley had no business being good at sex, but then maybe that was how there got to be so many of them. Draco squirmed, and Weasley’s large Keeper hands kept him in place against the wall. He wasn’t getting free, not until he’d come for Weasley, and with that thought Draco was gone. His defences collapsed, the pleasure shuddering through him, undoing him. Draco surrended, blissfully, and went limp and boneless and mindless in Weasley’s arms.

There wasn’t much of an afterglow: the glory was followed immediately by embarrassment.

He’d come in his sodding breeches, in less than ten minutes. Bloody brilliant. Weasley was going to mock him until the end of _time_ for this, and they still had their hands in each other’s trousers.

Draco winced and shrugged awkwardly away from Weasley’s hands and mouth. They’d gone gentle now and Weasley let Draco move, but wouldn’t move himself.

“Weasley - ” Draco muttered. “Come on, move back.”

“All right,” Weasley said. His tone was agreeable, but his voice was hoarse - and then Draco, against all his intentions, caught Weasley’s eyes.

They were on fire.

Draco paused for just one moment, startled. Then Weasley’s hands were on him again, Weasley was kissing him. “Don’t just walk off, you bastard, I haven’t come. And you were - I won - you just came apart for me, you’ll have to walk out all sweaty, still wrecked - ”

It wasn’t mockery, Draco realised. It was -

“You’re so fucking hot when you come, you’ve got no sodding idea,” Weasley told him. He spun Draco round and pulled Draco’s breeches down to his knees, all with utter confidence that Draco wouldn’t object. It was quick and easy and breathstealingly confident.

“Oh yeah, _I’m_ desperate,” Draco told the wall, in an attempt to regain some dignity. No dignity without sarcasm.

“That’s more like it,” Weasley breathed into Draco’s ear. Large hands groped Draco’s arse.

“There’s no lube here,” Draco said sharply. “Unless you keep some in your Quidditch uniform, you utter slag - ”

“Nah, nah,” Weasley interrupted. “Look, spread your legs a bit, okay?”

Draco did, the movements slow and distrustful. Weasley shuffled up close against him, the smell of his sweat and his warmth and his deep voice surrounding Draco more than ever. Then Draco felt Weasley’s thick cock slide between his thighs, rubbing nicely against his balls.

“Clench your thigh muscles, yeah?”

Draco obeyed, and he was rewarded with a moan from Weasley. “Yeah, that’s perfect. Keep doing that...”

Weasley thrust between Draco’s thighs, again and again; he was fast immediately, obviously close. Without lube it felt a bit rough but Draco’s thighs were slick from sweat and he thrilled to every thrust of Weasley’s heavy cock. “Fucking gorgeous when you come, I want to make you do that for days, got no fucking idea.”

Weasley’s big hands came up under Draco’s Quidditch jumper. He plucked at Draco’s nipples, groped his chest; for all that Draco was done, he shivered at Weasley’s pinches, at his fervent enjoyment of Draco’s body. “Can’t wait, can’t get you undressed, anyone could come along, but you’re...” Weasley’s words dissolved as he began mauling Draco’s earlobe. Draco moaned softly.

“Gonna mess you up - you’ll smell like me for days - fly home dripping with my come - ”

Draco felt lust twist his stomach, and he moaned. At the sound, Weasley grabbed Draco’s hip, crushing Draco’s body still further against his. And then Weasley cried out as he came. Draco felt him shiver and come against him. Draco’s thighs were -

He blushed. Idiotic in a grown man, but what Weasley had _said_ -

Weasley’s shuddering had calmed. They pulled away from each other after a moment and began to set their clothes to rights. It was something of a lost cause.

Draco wasn’t sure who’d won after all. He’d never had such a glow of satisfaction after _losing_ , after all. But Weasley’s wide grin said that he felt like a winner too.

Maybe it was all right to still not to know who’d won. It might even be good. The situation required a rematch.

Weasley touched Draco’s lower lip, his smile turning rueful, and maybe fond, at the swelling. Draco had bitten it too many times, trying to resist his orgasm - and Weasley had bitten it for him too. It’d be a souvenir for another day at least.

Draco smiled back, his skin warm under Weasley’s touch. “Good game.”


End file.
